"unbuttoned" poems
Soft melodies of the deep sea echo
Moonlight dances on my pretty scales
And icy bubbles whirl under my chest
Through my slippery hair
And down into my lungs to clear the way for overflowing foam
Laughter splashes behind my lips as my anticipation rises
Waiting for a night of twisted fairy-tales and uncalled for surprises.
Shimmering bodies swarm in spirals
Grinding in unison with the waves crashing at the surface
We're anxious for overflowing foam and hidden treasures
Purple light pierces the dark like shards of crystals
Casting a ghostly shade on bulbous faces
Pressure rises as each wave surges
Whirlpools of hot breath suffocate our gills
But the sidelines are shallow
And stragglers float motionless
Hair like seaweed at the nape of his neck
Unbuttoned linen soaked and dripping
Her hollow eyes glow green
Like the jelly orbs of a fish under florescent lights
She’s pressed against a boy who has hooks for fins
Searching for the parts that are edible
Tender, Scale-less, Slippery
Nothing wrong with being the catch of the day
Right?
Bubbles rise and pop as the last melodies drown
Schools of us are begging for shiny hooks and bad decisions
A handsome boy has been smiling all the while
He’s caught in a fisherman’s net
Craving salty lips and the spell to make him a man
But fisherman don't care for little mermaids
With hearts like sea glass and no hidden treasures to steal
Sweaty fins splash and cheer
The fishbowl shatters
Sea glass spills out onto sand
We squirm and flop onto land
Gasping without air to breathe
As our mouths and ***** thoughts dry in the sun
Leaving behind fresh meat without mouths to feed.
Rainbow confetti was stuck in the grooves of my scales
Wet clothes left on the floor of a steamy bathroom
Gasping and moaning into tile
With the face of a handsome stranger
Because this meat shouldn't go to waste
And I'm drunken with desperation
For overflowing foam, jewels, and shiny hooks
But I'm just another fish in the sea
Tumbling in the waves with my rainbow confetti scales.
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 6:00 PM UTC
navigator’s balcony cocktail hour
rocket orbit ocean liner rising
clenched no teeth no guernica no bam bam bam
correspondent notary republic
address book dial figure 8
charred with a thousand jigsaw pieces
false as a beach chiaroscuro black
on black graveyard womb naked milk glass lit
footprint tourism by candlelight and flare
vaccination fatigue puke fingernail fish
moving a bandaged echo **** him **** her
familiar bell music **** them both **** them all
stretched shirtsleeves spanish toffee slashed tires
(failure as a painter he shaved his wife’s fur coat)
bust your ***** Barcelona red alert
knock-kneed broken squeezebox no hands
standing room only ladies first (please)
unbuttoned interrogation coffee rolls (stop)
marine’s vegetation (stop) early morning tea (stop)
armless menus (stop) pink cathedral fingers (stop)
and (begin again) move
we move
moving inside an eye this eye
that advances step
by step
10.3k
I was never looking into you
I was only pouring an image of myself onto your canvas
Of course I didn’t know
it was me looking into me
this was the mirage of my desire
always in the shape of a question mark
and you
a sweeping mystery
oozing something toeing the peculiar line between *** and titanium (cold, edgy, sharp - trembling
between pain and principle
like blazer and tie
or more like halfway-unbuttoned-shirt-and-slacks on-with-no-tie
(it was like you were making an effort!))
It was ***
but it also wasn’t ***
(I am empty
I am full)
I keep building up and up and up
all these images in my Mind
(which never shuts up)
(a never-ending narrative
She spins and spins and succumbs
only in those rare and passing circumstances)
constructing people like buildings
only the scaffolding is imaginary and when
the architecture folds in on itself
soulless
and my beloved figurines come toppling down on me
why do I still get so surprised
so stung
so lonely in that
hollow and distant way
(like your Mind is echoing
in on
Itself)?
My Mind is like quicksand
devouring streams of memory with ease
forever unsatisfied and craving more of the same
sharp edges and all
praying for a satiation in some distant future
She knows will never come
Only here
in this tiny universe
can I spell out anything resembling rationality
from the mess and junk and tangled tendrils of my Mind
Only here
can I extract bits and pieces of thoughts
and try to puzzle them together
until they make sense
until I can separate “Me” from “Reality"
And what doesn’t make sense
what I need to understand
is why I feel so beset
with this heavy magnetism that
overpowers me to the point of
paralysis
(with little to no room for breathing)
and why it was you
who pushed me into this feeling
and you
who is still pulling me along
far past the threshold of my resistance
and I am done
and it stings
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 12:51 PM UTC
and
that backseat "love" lasted only as long as the night
as the memories rush in that morning try as i might
to keep you outta my mind, you're holed in there tight
a battle between "love" and lust...(hint) love lost the fight.
we
caused kisses shared between those wet rival lips
and bare skin touching, form a feeling at these hips
down unbuttoned jeans that your small hand slips
hear that sound, like tearing, as our "innocence" strips.
*******
formed foggy windows from our skin we shared
and dissolved to nothing, ha, like we ever cared
discoveries made at night shed light on how we faired
the sounds of "love" from my speaker actually blared
(lust)
.
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 1:57 AM UTC
you went sledding
with the kids
while I filed the paperwork
and cried
I used to be your lady boy
shining in green pit-bar light
as you kissed me like
the kids were with my mother
stuck at the bottom of the
treehouse slide in a pile
in mud
laughing
when
in reality they were
just budding inside of you
fertilized with apple liquor
and the perfume smoking
from my chest as you
unbuttoned the first few
revealing the scar left by
my brother's first pocket knife
the skin of my young years
the skin I am wearing now
cut by these ******* papers as
you freeze
tearlessly
in a pom pom hat
teaching our babies how to make
the perfect snowball
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 10:18 AM UTC
"montana-says-yoga-pants-illegal" Look up on Yahoo
we got quite the stash,
under the illegal grass,
in our hidden home,
bring 'em out when
it's just the two of us,
looking to get exercised
o'course we have secret codes,
(yogurt slackers)
never call 'em by their real name
in public,
lest we get sent by drone
to the new
orange and black jail
when we be feeling
risky-frisky,
under our coats
we wear 'em semi-publicly,
but to blend in,
we only buy black,
seeing as we live
in new york seeity,
where we reside,
black be the only
legal color for approved
illegal street walking
never when we travel domestically
in case we get busted,
don't want to face
federal interstate charges
of inciting others to riot sensationally!
this land is not my land,
maybe it is yours,
but if you come alooking
for us, we got a cabin
in the deep words,
where we practice
dress code freedom,
no ties, shirts untucked,
navel (oranges) fully exposed,
button down shirts always unbuttoned,
(my high school days
revolutionary first strike)
hoping to escape
the idiots we
place above us
to "govern"
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 4:34 PM UTC
Her voice is strained.
Her skin is fair.
Her ******* lay on the countertop.
I **** her until my thoughts stop.
She rejects the notion of love for all,
as she leans against my kitchen wall,
with a cigarette and an unbuttoned blouse-
she wants to be homeless in my house.
She keeps me in her necklace's locket,
and I keep her in the wallet in my pocket.
Her toes kiss the linoleum,
she walks like she's made of helium.
She mumbles that I taste like mint chocolate chip,
as she rubs against my hip.
Her breath smells like Malboro Lights,
and I hope she decides to stay the night.
Milky Ways and Vanilla Cakes,
she likes the way my body shakes,
as we lay and eat our troubles away.
Hurried words slow the day.
She asks me about my stretch marks and scars,
and if I've ever been hit by a car.
And I say no, but I've been hit by love before,
and it feels like getting your hand caught in a door.
Hurried smiles and bathroom stalls,
she likes the way my family never calls.
The words escape between her plump lips,
as my hand travels between her hips.
We move until we forget
that the world is moving faster.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 12:20 PM UTC
True Stories #1
This is the first of what will be a series of little vignettes.
When I was fourteen,
I was the alienate hipster rebel
In a private school hellhole.
Hair long, tie knot never pushed up,
Unbuttoned button-down shirts,
Camus lover,
Siddhartha disciple,
Small acts of disdain,
Expressions of teenage hell-pain.
One day, the principal
Threw me out to get a haircut.
Went to the nearby barbershop,
Which was in the underground,
Subway stop.
Returned to school where It was
Pronounced unacceptable.
Twice more this charade-escapade,
Went on, till the barber cried and would not
Charge me anymore.
Shorn like a lamb,
My mother roared like a lion.
The next day, the man in charge,
Who would marry my second son,
Three decades later,
Called me in and sort-of-apologized.
From that day, I never respected authority,
Only learned to fear tyranny.
See photo of my latest protest!
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 7:40 AM UTC
We roll back and forth
From side to side
Looks so needy
Grips so tight
Unbuttoned shirt, ripped dress
Will soon end up on the ground
With all the rest
The gentle touch or the hard hand
The screams for god
The squeeking bed
This night, I may never forget
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 7:51 PM UTC
She was my homecoming queen
She was the period to the end of my dreams
We conversed on the golf course that night
Her blouse unbuttoned
Her breast bare
Shadows danced across her chest
as the wind predicted rain
How I wished I remembered
what we said
But all I do . . . are spider bite kisses
How the years decay
Lucky in love
Lucky on death
Teeth that once were sharp
have been ground down
Homecoming Queen
My Homecoming Queen
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 7:26 PM UTC
I wandered the hallways
I drank my coffee
I drank your water
I bought a record
I buttoned my shirt
I unbuttoned my pants
I cracked my bones
I cracked a window
I turned off
I turned on
I washed the dishes
I washed my face
I washed my hands
I cut my arm
I cut class
I cut off
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 12:58 AM UTC
The patch of bare
skin below your
neck fascinates me,
smooth and pale beneath a
mint-colored shirt,
carelessly left unbuttoned at
the top of your breast.
I shy away from your
adolescent figure,
small and child-like in a
young man's arm,
but a
woman in mine.
I'm not meant to crave your
long hair and gloss-painted
lips, but the
freckles on your
cheeks mock me, your
hips intoxicate me.
I only imagine your
scent, your taste,
sweet and gentle like the
air inside me,
girl's perfume and
shampoo clung to you like
a veil.
You're nothing but
a little girl,
but,
in my arms,
you could be so
much more.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 9:44 PM UTC
Miryam unzipped
the tent flap
and looked out
pretty dead out here
she said
Benedict looked at her ****
hiding behind
the blue jeans
come back in then
no point
in going out yet
she zipped it
back up
and crawled back
beside him
and lay down
looking up
at the blue tent canvas
what do you think
Morocco's like?
she asked
Morocco
he replied
she laughed
I know that
but to experience it
apart from what
was in the booklet
they sent
with the other stuff
she said
have to see
when we get there
he replied
are you sure
that ex-army bloke
won't be back?
she asked
not for a few hours
he's gone to see sights
in Malaga
lucky us
she said
make the most of
he said
she gazed at him
is there no
satisfying you?
pretty much not
he said
she smiled
I’m sure people
heard us earlier
she said
your fault
if they did
he said
all that noise
and giggling
and oh oh oh
more more
I didn't
she said
you're making it up
pretty much so
he said
she kissed his cheek
to think I thought you
were the quiet one
she said
I am quiet
as a mouse
he replied
what if he comes back early
and we're making out?
she said
he won't
he's off to see
where
Picasso was born
and other
arty things
Benedict said
people might talk
if they see me
in here too much
she said
they can't see you
in here
he said
they might hear me
then be silent
he said smiling
trying to unbuttoned
her jeans
she watched him
biting her lower lip
seductively
and turning her head
at an angle
who said you could?
shall I stop?
he said
no don't you dare
she breathed out
she held his fingers
and helped unbutton
until it was
all done
there now you
she said
and unzipped his jeans
with one motion
why would he want
to see
where Picasso was born?
she said
taking off
?her jeans
and what other arty things?
Benedict undressed
listening
watching
takin
her tight ****
in the blue bra
museums
art shops
galleries
that kind of thing
boring ****
she said
putting her jeans
and underwear
to one side
yes guess so
Benedict said
what if
he changes his mind
and comes back?
she said
laying down
next to him well he'll get
a free lesson
in biology
won't he
Benedict said
she smiled
and kissed his neck
and said
utterly ****
what the hell
what the heck.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 2:02 AM UTC
Unbuttoned allure, yet captivated - my eyes.
Skirt’s whispered secrets, eclipsed - my eyes.
Glances try undress, but locked - my eyes.
Lashes dance, words unspoken behind my eyes.
Storm in your veins, tethered - my eyes.
Your body, wealth, surrendered - my eyes.
Feb 5, 2025
Feb 5, 2025 at 5:36 PM UTC
I am a peripheral *****
I brandish my notebook
Like a chef brandishes his dish-rag.
Where do wizards keep their wands?
I build worlds out of words
Universes out of silence;
Universes that can be destroyed
With a single eyebrow.
I am a calculator.
I am a thermometer.
I am a clashing painting on the wall.
I am a question.
I am as much as my pencil.
I am as much as my frame.
I am as much as my stains.
(I am as much as the buttons unbuttoned on my shirt collar.)
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 9:57 PM UTC
Where desire is an endless distance...
'He sleeps...I steal his brush,
Dip it red and wet,
Painting on his chest;
A mosaic of Love
My heart's mirror;
I carry him
Beneath my breast,
His Love
The first and last
Of my awakening heart'...
Writing him...
It was the softness of his hand
That held my breath against my will
Nestling in the curve of my arm;
My heart fluttered in his warm smile
As the mocha of his sight drenched me...
Smiles echoed on the canvas
Of tomorrows, suspended in each
Syllable that flowed like manna from heaven;
My fingers abandoned their hesitancy
Outlining his face,
Memorising...
I faltered;
Breathing in the shimmer of what is real;
His smile whispered a promise,
As his voice echoed my own
In an unwritten poem...
Poetry...
Lily white, she wakes near the night river,
The red mantra of Summer's rain, opens
The rose to shadow;
Cradled in awakened smiles,
The touch of twilight intoxicates visions of fairy-tales,
Like somber hues of unbuttoned fragments...
Heartbeats,
Soaked to the hollow of *******
Tucked in the deep comas of the lotus moon;
Her silver light,
Seamless,
Dreaming silks and milk tender...
A whispered name...
Hands steeped in honey,
Moving slowly through deep-red,
Echoes of dream;
Stillness,
Swallowed,
As hours burn pale candles,
Frozen eternal in spangles and lace...
Her wings wrap his pain in song;
Feather light,
A kiss of sweet enchantment,
Beyond the delicate tick-tock
Of destiny's hourglass;
A verse vertigo
Set free by the bleeding of her pen...
Reflections.....
This soft everlasting kiss
Nourishes the weeping within,
Showering each cold-shadow with warmth;
He sings in my skin,
Where we go in midnight's colours
My body, a pebble on his mountains;
Immersed in an endless sky;
Miracles flourish
Embraced in our endless beginnings.........
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 2:12 PM UTC
"Make love to me" she said.
"Use nothing but your words".
So I slid sentences down her chest
Scratched rhymes down her spine
And spilled soft, syllables into the curves of her neck.
I poured prose beneath her clothes
Left suspense in spaces and
Passion in sonant embraces.
I coloured her in cliches.
I kissed entire novels into her navel.
Her eyes gazed into mine as she began to unravel and unwind
As I slowly, unbuttoned, undressed
Indulged in and caressed
The fantasies in her mind.
Mesmerised, I memorised
Her from cover to cover.
Our bed the paper
Our hands the words
Our lips the verse.
Jul 16, 2020
Jul 16, 2020 at 6:41 AM UTC
He finished the painting yesterday noon. Now
he studies it in detail. He has painted him in a
gray unbuttoned coat, a deep gray; without
any vest or any tie. With a rose-colored shirt;
open at the collar, so something might be seen
also of the beauty of his chest, of his neck.
The right temple is almost entirely
covered by his hair, his beautiful hair
(parted in the manner he perfers it this year).
There is the completely voluptuous tone
he wanted to put into it when he was doing the eyes,
when he was doing the lips.... His mouth, the lips
that are made for consummation, for choice **********
1.7k
Christina sat
on you lap
you sat
on the low brick wall
around the playground
leaning against
the wire fence
the summer sun
warming your head
as she sat
her grey skirt
drifted up
revealing thighs
over on the playing field
Goldfinch kicked the football
but missed the goal
(two coats put down
wide spaces apart)
and pushed his hands
in the air
with frustration
she leaned in close
kissed your cheek
her hair blocking
the view of field
her hands inside
your jacket
your one hand
about her waist
the other resting
on her skirt
covered thigh
there’s no where private
for us to be
she said
no nook or cranny
to be alone
her small ******* pressed
against your chest
her warm breath
invading your ear
I’ve heard some
go into the woods
over the way
you said
no good
she replied
prefects go there
too often
to be much use
she loosened her tie
and unbuttoned
her blouse
shifting on your lap
she set herself
more comfortable
the grey skirt
riding higher
showing more thigh
she pulled the skirt
down to her knees
as a prefect went by
catching her eye
you should be
on the playing field
not here
like that together
the prefect said
looming overhead
Christina got off
your lap
and brushed down
her grey skirt
with small hands
you stood up
giving the prefect
a small smile
and wandered off
toward where
Goldfinch played
with ball
with boys
you saw Christina
saunter away
her hips swaying
her hand
giving a wave
then she was gone
amongst the other girls
who stood and stared
at boys at play
her small wet lips
imprinted
on your cheek
the kiss would be
unwashed away
you blew
from open palm
a secret kiss
to touch her
as she watched
the young boys play.
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 3:22 PM UTC
I do not think much my place upon this earth,
I am second, and you are first,
and when your voice is louder than mine
it is a familiar for me to sink and recline
into my chair, wilful to listen
to your unappealing, witted opinion
and programmed flair -
from which your talent glistens,
and has always been there.
Oh to be part of your vision.
I walk comfortable in high heeled shoes
that inscribe me a waggling soft tongue,
and when your pace is faster than mine
in brogues, and trousers that are looser,
I am simply undone,
at your ease to summon as the prime task-caster
of more tasks to come.
Your achievements are set with a slapped wet plaster.
Oh that you share a crumb.
And when you laugh, it is a big bellied echo
that chimes in my throat to strike and produce,
a small bit of fruit, just for you.
As I mimic your billow in an octave but lower,
that feels like part of the very same tune,
but my chuckle is actually a choke,
and what I could say would only provoke.
Oh you laugh much harder than me.
My almond eyes are softer than yours
and in the day you lock them only for an answer,
to some chore which requires a limited goal -
don’t get me wrong – I am no prancer,
my shoes are far too tight, and I’ve been taking the toll
of your papers, your personal sciv, your faxer.
A sniffing, weezling mole.
Oh I could dig deeper…
You **** much harder than me.
And when you *** you look in the mirror
at yourself in white unbuttoned shirt, heavy brow, so chipper
that when your sun sets it does in a vulvonic decree,
but you do not know that when I go home, I secretly scissor
in a way that would make your morning clippers shake violently.
Oh I love much harder than you,
I am better than you,
but somehow you are better than me.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 5:23 PM UTC
found she had broken in
was naked but for my dress shirt
unbuttoned but covering her shoulders
on my bed
reading my copy of Dostoevsky
I had the NY Times in my hand
the cigarette burnt down
my finger like a
reminder to wake up
let it burn
pain had left my being
blonde and sweet , not the blonde of Marilyn
Bridgette but the sanctified
sweet of Faye Dunaway , smoke lingered
wafted tobacco and burnt flesh simmering
told her, anytime, didn't expect this,
she paid me no attention acted
or read like she was engrossed
in the greatest thoughts of social reform
or the realisms of crime and punishments
maybe debating socialism and capitalism
there naked in my shirt
taking the novelists cue I undressed
laid down acting casual worldly when
she asked me the oddest question
you like Dostoevsky
we debated the rest of the day week
night dark and days bright
she left such a sweet scent
on my shirt
the window she busted has never
been fixed
May 28, 2017
May 28, 2017 at 6:30 AM UTC
define warmth for me, so that I comprehend
because I've been rubbernecking, though I reside here
and your greenhouse effect affects me not
I'm caught in a position of longing, but it is less of a yearning and more of an ambition
because I'd do utterly anything to feel the spark of embers
the sort of glow that old remember and young magnify
too often I'm hearing a climatic affair of the strong brought to knees
before being enveloped by a numbness that eases their burden
more often I am enraged by their weakness: disgusted by their vulnerability
or perhaps it's jealousy
from one who never felt the urge at the starter's pistol
it's hard to pity when the Arctic's all you've known
and maybe it's not fair
but who are you to say so
because I won't undergo your tragedy
and you won't fathom mine...
quit your babbling - it's all a mind game
and your wailing drives me wild
honestly, promise me nothing because keeping oath requires a fervor
which only comes with fire and you've the ability to find it despite your cold
but behold - that smouldering - I've never even felt it
still I can feel a trickle of pride
at your dab of effort when your arms encircled me
but dearest, I shivered
petrified, I sobbed because you were so close and blazing
while I was freezing
and that girl across the road sensed the calidity, unbuttoned her jacket and handed it over
to a man on the sidewalk in snowfall
he felt from her what she felt from you
you put scalding verses my glacial
green eyes were hopeful; my brown, resigned
I was worlds away from neutral
this ice has not enslaved me
make no illusion that there's a stand still
because I've yet to find the frosty pillar that might halt this endeavor for fire
on the streets I see vessels radiating my craving
and I wonder
by what method did they reach their warm condition
but at below 0
I suppose all you see is warms bodies.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 11:25 PM UTC
They had *** everywhere.
In the car,
Parked at Costco,
She teased him,
Bra-less under an unbuttoned shirt,
Her agile hand coated with a thin primer of Vaseline,
She stroked him slowly, precisely with a twist,
As somnolent sad faced suburban Sherpa,
Their neighbours and fellow citizens,
Hauled their apocalypse supplies
Across pristine acres of fresh asphalt,
Doped by fear,
Trapped inside the pixels of an infinite routine,
Unaware and
Unable to imagine life as a movie.
Out on the highway, as he drove,
She pulled up her skirt
And pulled down her tube top
Trucker’s horns roared their musical approval,
The benefits of a long haul driver were scant and skimpy,
Her ***** alive and anonymous,
Guilt free and aroused.
They ****** in washrooms,
Molested each other on escalators,
Texted friends while they copulated half clothed,
Shared their pride with angels dressed as ******
And counted their ******* like winnings at a casino,
Excited by the number and the game,
Their brains hot-wired,
Life a blur of alternating currents of sensation.
Death is constant state of ****** he told her,
When we leave this organic realm,
When we have finally turned the oceans into pudding,
And caged all of life,
When it is over,
We will enter into a cosmic stream of pleasure.
This is why the universe is expanding, he told her,
Pleasure is a colossal force,
The big bang was God’s ****** after all,
Her consequence the stars, the galaxies,
The dark palette of her entropy.
He was ******* her on a balcony while watching the moon
And waving to the woman with binoculars
When she asked,
Why is it so difficult,
Why do so many ignite pain and cant despair,
How did the curl and cling of hate
Take such deep root, she asked.
We fear death too well, he said,
And
Within the quick boundary of this moment
As they searched their waft and scent for clues,
They heard a whisper.
Inside the swell,
On top of a crest of acid clear thought
And without regret,
They forgave destiny,
Only to fly to the ground and beyond.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 2:28 PM UTC
some girls like it sweet,
an innocent angelic face, plaid mini skirts and unbuttoned white collared shirts, who goes to church every Sunday praying to god she’s not a sinner living in a yellow house with a white picket fence and a rose garden she’s an angel with the devil’s heart
some girls like it sour,
red lipstick stains on her neck, tight leather and fishnet tights, come home with bruised knuckles, isn’t religious but she’s on her knees every night
she’s a natural born sinner who is beautifully broken
how you like it
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 5:12 PM UTC